


There Go the Ships

by OomnyDevotchka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: deancasbigbang, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Season 7 AU) Castiel’s memory was never impaired – he was just too ashamed of his actions as God to go back to the Winchesters. When Dean shows up, looking for a faith healer, Castiel’s dragged back into the life he left behind, accompanied by his fake wife, Daphne. While the gang concocts a plan to cure Sam of his Hellish hallucinations and take out Dick Roman in one fell swoop, Castiel may just find the redemption he never hoped to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Go the Ships

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang. I'd like to thank [Slashhack](http://slashhack.livejournal.com/) for the beta, [ComedicDrama](http://comedicdrama.livejournal.com/) for looking this thing over and giving opinions, and, of course, [Paxdracona](http://paxdracona.livejournal.com/) for her stunning art! The rest of the art can be found [here](http://paxdracona.livejournal.com/9050.html), though be aware that it contains some spoilers for the fic.

            

            He wouldn’t go back to heaven after this. _Couldn’t_ go back to heaven after this. He’d committed the ultimate blasphemy, the worst possible thing for an angel to do – and that wasn’t even counting the deaths he was responsible for: Rachel, Balthazar, Remiel, Raziel, countless humans. And yet, the only thing that went through his mind, the only thing he cared about, was the pain on Dean’s face when he had discovered the betrayal. He was an abomination, a disgrace. He was – under water?

            Castiel suddenly returned to full consciousness from the hazy sea of his thoughts. The first thing he registered was wet. The second? Freedom. For months, close to a year, he’d been powered by Purgatory souls, able to feel the slight pulse of wrongness under his skin when he moved, spoke, thought, flew. It had increased, directly proportional to the cravings for more, ohGodpleasemore, until it had culminated in the souls taking over and altering his very being, while the seraph he had been was stuck inside, screaming.

            Now, all of the sudden, he was alone, his vessel empty once more. It felt just as strange as it had the first time he’d been resurrected (and wasn’t that the odd thing? A seraph, resurrected twice – three times now, no doubt) and found no trace of Jimmy Novak’s consciousness at the back of his mind.

            He’d never felt like _this_ before, though. Then, he’d known, down to the very core of his being, _why_ he’d been resurrected. He was meant to go to Dean, always Dean. Now? He had no doubt that Dean would find some way to kill him on the spot. The souls had been in control of him then, but they hadn’t stopped him from hearing Dean’s words

            _“What are you waiting for? Kill him!”_

Nor had it stopped him from feeling the angel blade Sam had stuck in him. No, the brothers Winchester would most assuredly _not_ welcome Castiel back, and that was as it should be. He could barely stand to think of the state Sam must be in at this point, after the wall holding the Hellfire back from his brain had shattered under Castiel’s command. It would likely end up killing him. And even if it didn’t- even if, somehow, Sam survived (he was a Winchester; they seemed to achieve the impossible on a near-daily basis.) Even if Sam himself forgave Castiel, Dean would never, ever forgive him for hurting Sam.

            It was with that assurance that Castiel decided he should probably make a move to get out of this lake. After all, he couldn’t make any amends for his evils from his current position. Ordinarily, he would simply fly out of the lake, but his powers were drained from attempting to fight the souls, and later, the Leviathans who had taken over his body.

_(Any hope of capturing it will be disappointed;_

_Were not even the gods overwhelmed at the sight of it?_

_No one is so fierce as to dare to stir it up._

_Who can stand before it?_

_Who can confront it and be safe?_

_– Under the whole heaven, who?)_

            Aside from the fact that he didn’t need to breathe, he might as well have been human.  He closed his eyes, and kicked his legs, aiming towards what he hoped was the surface of the lake.

            His head broke the surface, and he took a reflexive breath. He had somehow drifted to the center of the lake. Resigning himself to a long swim, Castiel began to make his way toward the shore, dragging his weary vessel (body, he reminded himself) with difficulty.

            As he pulled himself out of the lake, he noticed vaguely that his body was unclothed, ubiquitous suit and trench coat missing. As a being that had no need for clothing, this fact made him feel unexpectedly…sad. The many comments Dean had made about his state of dress rose to his mind, then.

            _“And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?”_

_“Well that’s great, because without your power, you’re basically just a baby in a trench coat.”_

Dean had always seemed so amused by Castiel’s vessel’s choice of clothing, so different from what he and Sam chose to wear. After spending so much time on Earth, Castiel could see why – they were a mark of his otherness, a physical reminder that he was more than human, even in that terrible time when he was Falling.

            And now they were gone. Well, it would be fitting, a new set of clothing for this new chapter that must begin in his life: less than an angel and more than a human, without any place to go.

            While Castiel was thinking these thoughts, his vessel’s (his, _his_ , not a vessel any longer) feet had unconsciously carried him away from the lake. He was familiar enough with human customs to know that he could not exactly wander into a town in the state he was in, yet his power wasn’t recovered to the point where he could clothe himself. As he was wondering what his next move should be he heard footsteps, disconcertingly close to him.

            Castiel turned around, wide eyed, just as a woman stepped out behind a nearby tree. He flinched slightly, expecting her to react poorly to stumbling upon a naked man in a forest.

            He was not disappointed. The woman, who was dressed in hiking clothing, let out a shriek and began to back away from him.

            It wasn’t the most appealing prospect in the world to attempt to talk to this strange woman, but Castiel didn’t know what else to do. He stepped forward, holding out his hands in a way that he hoped was non-threatening. “Hello,” he said.

            The woman continued to back away, her hand fumbling in her pocket, ostensibly looking for a cell phone to call for help.

            At this point, Castiel was resigned to losing her. However, he felt the need to try one more time. “Please, I need help.”

            There must have been something in his voice, something sincere and a bit pathetic, because the woman cautiously stepped forward. “Are you lost?” she asked. “More importantly, why are you naked?”

            Relieved, Castiel allowed his arms to fall back by his sides. “Yes, I am. I…fell into the lake. My clothing was weighing me down and making it difficult for me to swim, so I abandoned it.”

            The woman apparently believed his flimsy excuse; she nodded decisively and said “Alright. I know these trails pretty well; I’ll show you how to get out of here. What’s your name?”

            Castiel realized, then, that this woman would want to know things about him, would want to hear _how_ he had fallen into the lake. Another stroke of genius came to him. “I don’t remember. I think I hit my head before falling into the lake. I don’t know who I am.”

            (It wasn’t too taxing on his faded powers to raise a bump on the back of his head, where it would be hidden by Jimmy Novak’s thick, dark hair until the area was examined closely.)

            Something in the woman’s green eyes (Castiel tried not to think of the other pair of green eyes he knew so well, alternately flinty with determination and sparkling with laughter) softened at that.  “That’s a shame. I’m sure your memories will come back soon. I’m Daphne, by the way.”

            Castiel almost laughed out loud at that. How coincidental, that he should lose green-eyed Dean and find green-eyed Daphne.

***

            The ride away from the lake was completely silent. Ordinarily, Dean would commandeer the radio of any vehicle they rode in, due to ‘everyone else’s shitty taste in music.’ Sam couldn’t really blame him for not being in the mood for Zeppelin right now though.

            Even if Sam didn’t suspect that Dean had deeper feelings for the angel, (Sam prided himself on being emotionally intuitive, and he had known that Dean wasn’t picky about the gender of his sexual partners since the tender age of 13,) Castiel was the closest thing to a friend Dean had ever had. Dean’s brain organized his relationships in a very particular way. There was Family, which included Sam, Bobby, and the memory of John, Mary, Jo, and Ellen. These were the people Dean would walk through fire for. Then, there were the few past conquests he had cared about, and the people associated with them. Cassie, Lisa, and Ben fell neatly into this category. Dean cared about these people almost as much as he cared about Family, but wouldn’t let himself associate with them too much. It had been drilled into him from an early age that Hunters did not have relationships with people who weren’t in the life. Finding out the truth about his mother’s past had only strengthened this conviction. Everyone who didn’t fit into one of these two groups, Dean either outright hated or was largely indifferent towards.

            Castiel had never fit into either of these categories. His angelic nature had excluded him from the Family category on principle, but Dean had cared about him from the first time they had met. Adding to the incongruity was the fact that Cas could take care of himself. Dean was the type of person who showed his love by protectiveness, and Cas had never really needed that.

            So yeah, Sam completely understood Dean’s silence. That didn’t mean he wasn’t mightily unnerved by it. He knew that trying to get Dean to Talk About His Feelings was a horrible, terrible idea that would most likely end in physical harm and/or endless sleights to Sam’s masculinity. But Sam had to try.

            “Dean.”

            Dean’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, but he gave no other response.

            “Dean.”

            From the backseat, Bobby gave a pointed cough, a clear request for Sam to shut his idjit mouth.

            Sam tried once more. “Dean.”

            Bad idea. Dean’s mouth tightened and he ground out “Sam. Stop fucking talking.”

            Ordinarily, this wouldn’t actually make Sam stop, as that kind of flat denial usually meant Dean was cracking. However, the raw _pain_ in Dean’s voice made Sam fall silent.

            There were only three times in Sam’s life that he had heard Dean sound like that: After John’s death, after Sam’s own ‘death’, and when he remembered Hell.

            No one spoke for the rest of the ride.

***

            Castiel stood awkwardly in Daphne’s living room, still nude, dripping water and black goo all over her carpet. Daphne herself looked disgusted, wincing slightly every time a droplet hit the floor. She also looked like she didn’t quite know how they had gotten here.

            Castiel knew the feeling.

            “I live alone, so I don’t have any men’s clothes lying around…I guess I could go pick you up something? You should take a shower first, though,” Daphne said. She looked critically at Castiel’s naked body for a moment, then asked “…What size shirt and pants do you wear?”

            Castiel didn’t know, and told her as much. She looked disappointed at that, and sighed. “Just, take a shower, and we’ll figure something out later. I’m going to make lunch, do you want anything? 

 Castiel blinked, bemused at the sudden subject change. “I do not eat,” he said, before remembering that this was something normal humans would never say.

            Sure enough, Daphne looked at him strangely. “You don’t eat,” she repeated disbelievingly. “Ever?”

            Castiel had only a few seconds to think of a way to correct his blunder. Since he had come to Earth, he had rarely had occasion to speak with any human who wasn’t a Hunter, any human who wouldn’t immediately sense that there was something different about him. From these few conversations, he had come to surmise that ordinary humans were not very observant, nor were they very intelligent, at least when compared with their Hunter counterparts. And these humans had come off even less well when compared to Castiel’s kind, the angels, with their ancient knowledge and sharp intellect.

            Castiel was beginning to think that he had underestimated humankind. Daphne’s eyes were sharp, suspicious, and focused entirely on him. He felt almost as though he were trapped in another circle of Holy Fire, so strong was his feeling that he couldn’t escape this scrutiny.

            He couldn’t think up an excuse, his earlier ease of lying deserting him entirely. Daphne’s eyes narrowed even further, and she started to back away from him again. “Are you trying to joke with me, or are you just crazy?”

            Castiel had no choice, then, but to tell the truth. “Neither. I am an angel of the Lord.”

            (He hoped that the Holy Bible he could see, visible on a bookshelf over Daphne’s left shoulder, was evidence that she was a religious woman. That would work in his favor.)

            No such luck, it seemed. Daphne had her cell phone out, and went to dial. “Crazy it is, then,” she muttered.

            Castiel did not wish to get into a confrontation with the human police in his reduced state. He expanded a bit more energy than he could really spare, and vanished the phone out of Daphne’s hands, just as it began to ring.

            Daphne’s mouth fell open, and she looked nothing short of terrified when he caught her eye. “You can’t be-” she gasped.

            Castiel recalled a similar instance of a human not believing him, and smiled humorlessly as he unfolded his wings, making their shadows visible on the wall behind him.

            Daphne fell to her knees, at that, which was not the reaction Castiel was used to getting. “Please rise,” he said, uncomfortable with her obvious show of reverence. A tainted creature like him deserved none of it. “I wish you no harm.”

            Daphne stood slowly, her legs shaking beneath her. “What are you _doing_ here?” she breathed. “And which one _are_ you? Michael? Gabriel?”

            Castiel winced at the reminder of his brothers, one trapped in the Pit, and the other stabbed to death. “I am not quite that high in the ranks. My name is…Emmanuel.”

            ( _Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,_

_And they shall name him Emmanuel,_

_Which means, ‘God is with us’)_

            He couldn’t say quite _why_ he lied to her about this. It was a small secret to keep, after revealing what he was. He simply had the compulsion to create a new identity, to distance himself from the taint that that angel Castiel had unleashed on the world. The angel Castiel may now be an abomination, ruined beyond all hope of redemption, but the angel Emmanuel was a clean slate.

            “Emmanuel,” Daphne breathed, still looking reverent. Then she blinked, and a frown came over her face. “Wait, you’re not here to take me to the afterlife or anything, right?”

            “I am hardly the Angel of Death.”

            ( _They have a king over them the angel of the bottomless pit; his name in Hebrew is Abaddon, and in Greek he is called Apollyon)_

            Daphne huffed a relieved laugh at that. “That’s good, I guess. But why are you here? And why did you appear to me?”

            It was, of course, frowned upon for an angel to lie to a human about God’s orders, but Castiel supposed that, all things considered, this would be a harmless crime. “I am here to serve humanity. And I appeared to you, Daphne -” He focused quickly on the hiking backpack she had left on the floor, looking through it to read the driver’s license inside a side pocket. “-Allen, because you are Chosen.”

            Daphne sank onto the nearby loveseat. “Chosen?” She swallowed visibly. “By _God?_ ”

            Castiel realized, then, that he may possibly be in over his head. 

***

            It had been three weeks since Cas’s death and Dean wasn’t getting any better. Along with the flashes of Hell Sam kept getting (a consequence, he supposed, of the broken wall in his head,) it was making his life very difficult.

            He supposed that he should probably be angry with Cas for doing the wall-breaking. But the thing was this: Castiel had worked with a demon in order to obtain addictive substances that would make him powerful enough to kill his enemy and save the world. Change a few key details, and Cas was in _exactly_ the same boat that Sam himself had been in a few years back. Hell, what Castiel had done was _better_ than what Sam had done, in a way – Cas was only ever motivated by his need to help the Winchesters (and by that he meant Dean.) Sam had been motivated by revenge, turned into a hollow, bitter shell of what he had once been by the loss of his brother. Sure, Castiel had gone all strange and evil at the end, but that was under the influence of millions of Purgatory souls. Sam knew what it was like to be controlled by an outside influence like that. Plus, it was kind of a relief to have the wall gone, despite the images of screaming and torture and Hellfire that popped up in his mind now. He didn’t understand how it was possible, but the wall had felt like something _physical_ \- a patch of wrong, of _unnatural_ in his brain. It had been irritating, and Sam had often found himself pushing at it, testing its limits, wanting to just break it down. It had been only a matter of time, really, before his discipline (admittedly poor, in matters like this) failed, and the wall came a-tumblin’ down.

            Anyway, the nub and gist of things was that Sam was not angry with Castiel at all, and was even sad at his death. He wished that they had found a way to help him, to detox him the way they had done with Sam. However, it would have been difficult to keep an all-powerful God in the panic room, and Sam and Dean had bigger things to worry about.

            The consequences of their angel’s bad decisions were scary sons of bitches. Strong, carnivorous, and apparently unkillable, they were up there with Lucifer himself on the list of creepy shit the Winchesters had faced.

            Which was why Sam and Dean were currently holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, buried in what was left of Bobby’s book collection. Bobby himself had gotten sick of Dean’s attitude around the second day he was forced to stay with him, and was currently on a solo road trip to New York, to see if John’s storage facility could yield any new information.

            Which meant that Sam was alone with his brother.

            Dean sat at a desk, glass of whiskey by his elbow, staring at a large tome without really seeing the words. He had literally been there for hours, working steadily through a bottle, and Sam was fucking sick of it. Yeah, he _knew_ that Dean had lost the object of his twisted affections, he _knew_ that Dean tended to internalize this shit and self-medicate with drink, he _knew_ that Dean was perhaps the least emotionally healthy person in the world, but he couldn’t help but be angry and disappointed about the way Dean was reacting. It was selfish, and it had been _years_ , but Sam knew what it felt like to lose the person you love, hell, what it was like to _watch that person die_. He wasn’t just thinking of Jessica when he thought this (And God, he thought that almost eight _fucking_ years should’ve been enough to erase the twinge of sadness and longing he felt when he so much as thought her name) but Dean himself. And yeah, it was also hypocritical, because Sam had, admittedly, gone off the rails when _that_ had happened. But Dean was the big brother, the caretaker, and Sam couldn’t help but expect more of him, somehow. Couldn’t help but expect him to crack a smile and joke, to recognize and acknowledge that Sam was hurting, to make it all _better_ somehow. Just like when they were kids.

            Sam shook his head. He needed to stop thinking like this. He was a grown man, almost thirty years old, and he couldn’t expect his brother to be infallible anymore. It was this thought that made his voice soften when he inquired “Dean?”

            Dean looked up at him, green eyes bloodshot and more vulnerable than they had been in a long time, and Sam immediately felt like a piss-poor excuse for a brother. Dean had been the protector his whole life. Sam was overdue to return the favor.

            Unfortunately, his good intentions didn’t exactly grant Sam knowledge on how to deal with his emotionally unstable brother. Dean was prickly, all sharp edges and machismo, and usually only responded to the patented Winchester Method: repress, repress, repress, get drunk, fuck something, then crack a joke and drive towards the next hunt.

            That was woefully inadequate in this situation, but the only alternative Sam knew was talking the situation out, which Dean would never agree to.

            So, instead, Sam fell back on what he knew so well: being an irritating kid brother.

            “Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?” he sniped at Dean, lifting a meaningful eyebrow in the direction of his brother’s glass.

            Amazingly enough that did seem to cheer Dean up a little. He snorted, drained what was left of his liquor in one pull, and retorted “Don’t you think you haven’t had enough to drink?”

            Crap. Sam knew that tone in Dean’s voice, that gleam in Dean’s eye. He was apparently at that stage of buzzed where all he wanted to do was get everyone around him to drink as well.

            Now, no one could accuse Sam of temperance when it came to alcohol, but he had _tried_ looking through Bobby’s books drunk before, and that endeavor had led to the ruin of several rare and priceless tomes.

            Bobby hadn’t spoken to Sam for a month and a half after that incident.

            Anyway, the point was, Sam was _not_ about to emulate his brother when it came to this.

            Dean looked at him for a few more seconds, unreadable expression on his face, and then turned back to his book. It was a clear dismissal, and Sam gave it up for a lost cause.

            He beat a hasty retreat outside and leaned against a nearby tree. He didn’t know what to do.

(He thought he saw flames out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head there was nothing there.)

***

            Here’s how things went for Castiel:

            After Daphne had recovered from the shock of meeting an angel, she found him clothing and welcomed him into her life and into her home.

            (“Thank you for trusting me enough to allow me this.” He told her; freshly clean from a shower and drinking coffee in order to try to make her less nervous. She shrugged and answered “If you can’t trust an angel, who can you trust?”

            Castiel decided he would never tell her about Gabriel.)

            Then, she decided that he should serve humanity by healing, helping the millions of people who suffered from diseases, physical, mental, and spiritual. They started in Daphne’s town, which Castiel learned was called Akron, Colorado. He healed what he could, and word began to spread about him, which was worrisome: the last thing he needed was for Crowley to catch wind of the fact that he was still alive. He made sure Daphne’s house was always tightly warded, without her knowledge. As his fame grew, Daphne began telling people she was his wife.

            (“Why did you say that?” he asked her, after the first time she had done this.

            “I needed to explain why we live together. It sets us up as a team, since I can hardly tell them what you really are.” She answered, as though this should be obvious. She tended to forget, sometimes, that he had little experience with ordinary human customs.)

            Daphne could never be a replacement for what he had lost, for _Dean_ , but as the months went on, Castiel became attached to her. She was sympathetic and open, in a way that someone raised in a Hunter lifestyle, living on the fringes of society and unable to be truthful with most of the people they met, could never be. He found himself telling her things that he had never thought he would say aloud, though he was careful to never let slip his true name or the extent of his crimes against humanity. He even, under the influence of a truly staggering amount of alcohol, admitted to his most closely guarded secret, one he had trouble admitting even to himself: that he was deeply and romantically in love with Dean Winchester.

            (The next day, after their hangovers abated slightly, Daphne asked him “Is it even allowed for angels to do that? Y’know – Have sex?”

            “When angels are in human form, they can do whatever humans can do.”

            “But isn’t God against two men having sex?”

            Castiel smiled slightly. Humans were all so strangely preoccupied with that question. “Leviticus 18:22. _You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination_.”

            “Yes, that.”

            “The Hebrew Bible, while useful, was written through a human lens, and has been translated and interpreted in so many different ways that it no longer represents God’s true Word. God is far less concerned with the sexual activities of humankind than that document would have you believe. In addition, I am not a man. Angels are genderless.”

            Castiel spent the next few hours explaining the concept of vessels to Daphne, and telling her the story of what had happened to poor Jimmy Novak. It was a painful for him to talk about, but infinitely less painful than discussing Dean.)

            In return, Daphne told Castiel her secrets: how her parents had been distant growing up, how she hadn’t really dated since she had realized that all of her boyfriends were emotionally unavailable, how she had moved to Akron, Colorado, to escape her past, and how she had been cripplingly lonely before Castiel came into her life.

            This last confession, somehow, had ended with the two of them in bed.

            (Sex was something that Castiel enjoyed a great deal. True, Daphne’s body, all peaks and valleys, soft and fragile, wasn’t what he craved, but the blissful oblivion of an orgasm was the best thing he had ever felt.

            He worried, in the beginning, that Daphne might find herself in love with him, but, as she assured him on many occasions, sex did not have to involve romantic feelings.

            Castiel couldn’t help thinking of Dean, when she spoke like that.)

            It was a quiet life they lived together, their routine only interrupted by the occasional healing. Healings filled Castiel with joy, the happiness and wonder in each person’s eyes as the impossible happened to them like a balm to his guilt. Unfortunately, the respite to this guilt lasted but a moment each time. Castiel knew that, no matter how many people he healed, he could not erase the crimes he had committed. They haunted him at night, when Daphne was sleeping and the house was silent, those people he had killed, those _angels_ he had killed.

            And he knew, without a doubt, that more were dying each day at the hands of the Leviathans. He thought, sometimes, that he should go back to Sam and Dean, only to help them fix this mess he had created. But what could he do? Angels were powerless against these creatures, and he would only end up dying if he tried to fight them. Not to mention, they were the result of the _last_ time he had attempted to help the Winchesters. No, Sam and Dean would find a way to save the world again. They had done it before, after all. They could do it again, with or without Castiel.

            This new life occupied Castiel fully, until one day, when it came crashing down around him.

***

            Here was how things went for the Winchesters:

            It was safe to say that all hell broke loose every single time Sam and Dean came into contact with their gooey nemeses. Almost literally, in this case, though it might be more accurate to say all Purgatory broke loose.

            Anyway, as if _fucking torching_ their safe place hadn’t been enough, the Leviathans then stole their identities, landing them on the FBI’s most wanted list for the second time in their lives.

            (Sam, ever the voice of reason, said “We have killed a lot of people, Dean.”

            Dean glared at him, upset that his rant was interrupted. “We’ve killed a lot of _monsters._ ”

            Sam opened his mouth to point out, yet _again_ , that it didn’t look that way from the outside, but Dean cut him off. “I _know_ , Sam, Jesus.” He flopped back on the motel room bed and refused to speak for the rest of the night.)

            Even with the help of their allies, they just couldn’t seem to catch a break, couldn’t seem to figure out what the Leviathans’ endgame was. It had always been pretty easy, before, to figure out the motivation of what they were fighting. Most monsters wanted to kill people because they were evil and/or hungry, Michael, Zachariah, Lucifer, and the other assorted dickless wonders had wanted to end the world because they had Daddy issues, Crowley wanted to rule Hell, etcetera, etcetera. But the Leviathans? Sure, part of their thing was just eating humans, but they were organized in a way that most baddies weren’t, and the whole ‘infiltrating the body of a prominent businessman and using him for nefarious purposes’ thing just _screamed_ of some kind of plot.

            Then Bobby died, and figuring it out seemed less important than it had before.

            (It had been a bitch to get Bobby’s body out of the hospital without anyone noticing. They had to, though: after everything, Bobby deserved a hunter’s funeral, not some cremation joint’s oven.

            Sam and Dean stayed by the pyre long after the last of the flames had died down, taking the earthly remains of their surrogate father with them.)

            It had been difficult for the boys to get back on their feet after that – even more difficult than it had been when their real father had died. Dean thought it was probably because of the unfairness of it all. John had died on his own terms, sacrificing himself in the way that Winchesters were so fond of. Bobby, on the other hand – a bullet to the head seemed so _impersonal_ , somehow. He had survived the apocalypse, sold his soul to a demon, lost the use of his legs and then got them back – it was hard to believe that something so mundane could kill him.

            But it had.

And then, just too add even _more_ shit to the Great Big Pile O’ Shit that was the Winchesters’ lives, Sam’s hallucinations, which had been _under control, damn it_ , returned with a vengeance.

            (Lucifer’s shtick, Sam mused as his hallucination began singing for the third time in an hour, wasn’t even that bad, really. Sure, the people slamming their heads against the tabletops had been disturbing as fuck, and the turning his food into various insects thing was pretty gross, but, for the most part, the imaginary devil just acted like a mix between a child looking for attention and the star of a really campy musical. It’d be _funny_ , really, if only he could get some fucking _sleep_.)        

            After Sam’s hallucinations and subsequent insomnia landed him in a loony bin, Dean found himself driving the shitty car he had to use in place of the Impala to Bumfuck Nowhere, Colorado, in search of a faith healer.

***

            Dean found himself walking up the front steps to knock on the front door of a nondescript looking house. He had to admit, this whole situation was shady as fuck, but he was at the end of his rope. He seemed to find himself in this kind of situation far too often for his liking – willing to do anything, to abandon his ordinary skepticism, to abandon his _morals_ , in order to save Sammy.

            Such was the life of a hunter, he supposed.

            The man who opened the door at Dean’s insistent knocks didn’t look much like a healer. Dean couldn’t help but compare him to Reverend LeGrange, the faith healer who had saved Dean from certain death a lifetime ago, before Dean had been embroiled in stopping one plot after another to end the world. LeGrange had looked like what a faith healer should be – a white-bread southern Baptist, with dark glasses to hide his blindness. You’d think that people wouldn’t trust a man who couldn’t heal his _own_ obvious injury to heal theirs, but Dean’s had enough experience with pain and suffering, both his own and others’, to know that it does funny things to people. 

            In contrast, ‘Emmanuel’ looked like the picture of an ordinary suburban dad, complete with ugly sweater. He looked like the kind of guy that you’d see wandering around the mall with a kid on his shoulders, not one that had cosmic healing powers or whatever at his fingertips.

            Then Dean chanced to look through the front window, and saw a struggling woman tied to a chair. Not exactly a faith healer’s M.O. Sure enough, when Dean looked back at ‘Emmanuel’, the man’s eyes flashed black.

            Damn. Dean took a minute to thank his lucky stars that John Winchester had drilled paranoia into his sons’ heads at a young age. It was because of John’s teachings that Dean had Ruby’s knife at his belt. Still, he didn’t relish using it – they were on the front porch of a house on a populated street in broad daylight, and the fuzz was already on Dean’s ass.

            Unfortunately, old black-eyes didn’t respond to Dean’s invocation of the protection Crowley had given him and his brother, and Dean had no choice but to stab him through the stomach, sparing a moment to feel intensely sorry for the poor bastard who may or may not still be occupying the demon’s meat suit.

            When the demon stopped sparking and convulsing a few seconds later, Dean put a hand on his shoulder and shoved, pulling the knife out of the body and pushing it down the steps in the same motion. As he followed the body with his eyes, he saw it land at a pair of feet. _Shit_.

            Dean sincerely hoped that whoever this guy was didn’t watch the news and looked up, a vague plan to accuse the demon of trying to kill him crossing his mind. He was certain that the tied up woman in the house would further his case.

            However, as he looked into a pair of shocked blue eyes and heard the man at the foot of the stairs breathe a disbelieving “Dean?” he realized that wouldn’t be necessary.

            It wouldn’t be necessary because somehow, _impossibly_ , the man at the bottom of the stairs was Castiel.

***

            It would be an understatement to say that Castiel was shocked. True, he had known for some time that word about his healing abilities was getting out (despite his protests, Daphne insisted that he help as many people as he could) but he had never expected the Winchesters to seek this sort of thing. Judging by Dean’s appearance, which was shocked but healthy, it wasn’t Dean who needed a healing. It was not too surprising that Sam was in a bad state, given the hell that had been unleashed in his brain when Castiel tore his wall down. Castiel’s ever-present guilt rose up in his throat, making it difficult to form words. “Something’s wrong with Sam, isn’t it?”

            Those words seemed to snap Dean out of his stupor. “How are you alive?” he demanded.

            Castiel shrugged. “The same way I was alive after Raphael and Lucifer killed me, I suppose. Would you rather continue this conversation inside?”

            “Oh shit!” Dean exclaimed, looking as though he had just remembered something important. He dashed inside Daphne’s house (Castiel could never quite bring himself to call it _his_ house) without another word. Castiel took a split second to look down at the dead demon at his feet, before realizing that Daphne must be in some sort of danger. In a panic, he flew inside, landing next to the chair that Daphne was tied in just as Dean entered the living room.

            Daphne, who had been struggling against her bonds, relaxed as soon as she saw Castiel. With a blink, Castiel unbound her, and she threw himself into his arms, trembling. “What the _fuck_ was that thing?!” she asked. “Its eyes were _black_.”

            Dean snorted. “That was a demon, lady. What, you’re perfectly fine with Feathers here popping in and out of the joint, but you don’t know about demons?” He cast a derisive look at Castiel, clearly wanting an explanation for Daphne’s limited knowledge of the supernatural.

            Before Castiel had time to answer (whether by defending himself or falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness, he wasn’t quite sure), Daphne stepped back from Castiel and turned to Dean with a frown. “Can I ask who you are, and what you’re doing in my house?” She said, clearly wary of the strange, aggressive man.

            “Nice way to thank a guy for saving you.” Dean muttered. “I’m Dean Winchester. Can I ask who _you_ are, and why you’re OK with being touched by an angel?”

            Daphne didn’t laugh at Dean’s joke, choosing instead to turn to Castiel. “This is Dean?” she asked him, wide-eyed.

            “You been tellin’ tales about me, Cas?” Dean’s eyes were hard and his voice sharp. That, combined with his casual use of Castiel’s true name, which he hadn’t heard in over six months, made Castiel visibly wince.

            Daphne looked, if possible, even more confused. “Cas? Who’s Cas?”

            Dean sighed a loud, put-upon sigh, ran his hand through his spiky hair, and stalked into the living room. His powerful physique dwarfed Daphne, and made the room seem much smaller than it was. “Seriously?” he said, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Daphne. “ _Cas_ is the angel Castiel, also known as the guy you were plastered against not two minutes ago. I’m guessing _you_ are Daphne, his wife, which is why I’m real interested to know why you don’t even know his name.”

            Both Daphne and Dean turned to Castiel, then, and he was struck with just how similar they were to each other. Their eyes were nearly the exact same shade of green, and they had an identical questioning expression. Castiel decided to address Dean first. “We are not actually married. Daphne found me after I woke up in that lake, and has been taking care of me for the past few months. I didn’t feel the need to lie to her about what I am, but I also didn’t see the need to tell her about demons and such – I was confident that I would be able to adequately hide us from them.”

            “Yeah, A-plus work there, Cas.” At that, Daphne shot a disapproving face at Dean and he quieted down, but not before rolling his eyes.

            “And before you ask” Castiel continued, “I did not let you know I was alive because I assumed you would kill me on sight.”

            Dean flinched, ever so slightly, at the surety in Castiel’s tone, but Castiel had already turned to Daphne. “Yes, this is Dean” he told her, hoping his eyes conveyed just how important it was for her to keep secret the things he had told her “And yes, my name is Castiel. I’ve done some bad things – horrible things really, and I wanted to distance myself from the creature I used to be.”

            There was silence in the room at that pronouncement, but only for a moment, as Dean wasn’t the type of person to waste time. “Whatever. We can talk about your guilt and fake marriage _later_.” he said to Castiel. “But right _now_ , Sammy’s stuck in a _mental hospital_ because his hallucinations of Hell, which _you_ caused, aren’t letting him get any sleep. You need to come fix him.”

            Castiel knew he deserved Dean’s hostility, considering what he had done, but he still bristled at Dean’s tone. “Don’t you think,” he began quietly, blue eyes narrow, “that if I had _any_ idea how to help Sam, I would have done it already?”

            “I don’t know what to think about you anymore.” Dean snapped. “And what do you mean, _if_? You’re a fucking angel for God’s sake, can’t you just poof him better?”

            “Dean, _Death himself_ couldn’t stop these hallucinations. You think _I_ can do what he cannot?”

            Dean’s shoulders slumped slightly, but he soldiered on. “I think you damn well better do _something_! If I don’t fix him, Sammy will _die_ , Cas!”

            Throughout this conversation, Dean and Castiel had stepped closer and closer to each other, until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Their shouts were also growing progressively louder, which was why Daphne decided to step in. “Alright, that’s enough!” she said sharply. Dean looked as though he was going to ignore her, but Castiel gave her his complete attention. “You don’t think there’s _anything_ at all you can do for Sam?” She asked, focusing on Castiel.

            He shifted uncomfortably. “I may be able to help him sleep, but I won’t be able to remove the memory of Hell completely.”

            Before Daphne could freak out appropriately over the things her fake husband was saying (Death was a _being_? People could actually go to Hell? What kind of name was Castiel anyway?), Dean jumped back into the conversation. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?!” he demanded. When Castiel opened his mouth to answer this question, Dean cut him off. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just _go_. Every minute we stand here jawing is a minute we could be helping Sam.”

            Castiel gave a single, sharp nod. “Fine. Where did you say he was?” he asked, already raising his hand, ready to whisk Dean away as soon as he said the words.

            Dean batted his hand away. “No way. You know how much I hate Angel Air. We’re driving.”

            Castiel’s head tilted slightly to the side. “We can’t afford to spend any more time speaking, but you are willing to waste hours driving?” He had never really understood Dean’s aversion to flying with him. It wasn’t as though Dean was actually cognizant of the journey: Castiel flew so quickly that, to the human, it seemed as though they traveled from one place to another instantly.

            “Yes. Now come on, it’s not that far.”

            Castiel made to follow Dean, intent on speaking to him more in the car. He wasn’t looking to obtain Dean’s forgiveness during this trip (although he would do just about anything in order to get Dean to smile at him again,) but Dean was right: they needed to find a way to help Sam. Castiel wasn’t optimistic, but there was a much better chance that Dean would find a way to cure Sam if he had Castiel’s knowledge at his disposal.

            As they exited the house and made their way toward the car (it wasn’t the Impala, Castiel noticed, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. Dean would never drive another car willingly.) Dean noticed that Daphne was trailing them. “You know you’re not coming with us, right?” he asked her, his tone patronizing.

            Daphne glared and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Yes, I am.” Her tone implied that there was no room for compromise on this matter, but she was a slight woman – it would take hardly any effort at all for Dean to force her to stay, if it came to that.

            “Look, I don’t know how much of this conversation you’ve been listening to, but demons are real, and so are all the other monsters you’ve ever heard of. My job is to _fight_ them. It’s dangerous.”

            “Is it because I’m a woman?” She asked, outraged.

            “It’s because you’re a _civilian_. If we get into a fight, you’ll just be a liability.”

            “Castiel can protect me.”

            Dean looked at Castiel, who shrugged. Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine, but if you die, it’s not my fault. Also Cas gets shotgun.”

            The three of them piled into the car, and headed back toward Sam.

***

            The car ride was probably the most awkward event in which Dean had ever had the misfortune of participating.

            Cas had always been quiet at the best of times, but the weight of what had happened between he and Dean was so heavy as to be almost tangible, and he now refused to speak at all.

            Daphne had made a valiant effort to dispel this silence at first, trying to engage both men in conversation. Then, when that proved futile, trying to have a conversation with only Castiel; then, almost desperately, trying to speak to Dean. Now, she was just as silent as Cas, staring out the window as the last traces of Colorado flew past.

            Dean couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, annoyed as he was about her insinuating herself on their trip. He didn’t know exactly how much Cas had told her about his past, about _their_ past, but judging by her continued confusion, he hadn’t exactly painted a complete picture. It couldn’t have been easy, finding out that your fake husband (and seriously? How the hell did _that_ work? Shit was dysfunctional, and coming from Dean, that was saying something-) had some sort of evil, secret, past with a dude who hunted demons.

            Ok, thinking about it like that made it seem like Cas and Dean had been some sort of star-crossed lovers or something, and Dean was not even going to go there. Yeah, he’d thought about it before, because he was a red-blooded man with indiscriminate sexual tastes, and Cas’s vessel had been a good-looking dude, but there had been no _romance._ Dean Winchester didn’t _do_ romance.

            Dean’s pondering and denial was interrupted then, by Cas speaking his first words since they’d gotten in the car nearly three hours ago. “Why isn’t Bobby with you?” he asked. “Surely he would be your best resource to help Sam?”

            Dean winced. It was just like Cas, really, to bring up such an uncomfortable subject so bluntly. Not that he _knew_ it was uncomfortable, but still. “Bobby died.” Dean said, flatly and much more harshly than was really necessary.

            Cas turned to him, a strange mixture of shock and sorrow on his face. “Died?” he echoed. “When? _How?_ ”

            Dean didn’t want to fucking talk about this, but he guessed he owed Cas an explanation. For all Bobby and Cas’s relationship had been stilted and overly formal (which was what Cas’s relationships with most people were like, actually) they had been friends, and it was clear from the look on Cas’s face that he was genuinely upset. “Dick Roman,” Dean said, his voice full of venom. He elaborated at the perplexed look on Cas’s face. “The king Leviathan, or whatever. Took over the body of this hotshot businessman named Dick Roman. Asshole shot Bobby in the head, about three months back.”

            Dean hoped that this was the most explaining he’d have to do on this situation. With his worries about Sam and the Leviathans so pressing, lately, his grief over Bobby’s death had sort of taken a backseat. It was still always _there_ , though, like some sort of dark cloud, ready to envelop him every time he stopped moving.

            That was part of the reason he’d been so intent on hunting down Dick lately. Sure, a lot of it was motivated by revenge, but even more of it was simply because Dean was the type of person who had to be busy, had to be doing _something_ , to try to outrun his sadness.

            That was one of the many traits Dean had inherited from his father.

            Cas nodded at Dean’s explanation, then turned away, but not before Dean could see a flash of guilt on his face. Of course Cas would feel guilty about this, he realized on further reflection. After all, he had been the one who had released the Leviathans from Purgatory, and had thus indirectly caused Bobby’s death (on top of much more directly causing Sam’s insanity.) Dean should have been angry at him for this, should have let him stew in his own guilt, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that. “Cas,” he said, voice softening as much as it ever did. “You weren’t the only one fucking around in Purgatory, remember. Crowley would’ve let them out sooner or later, I’m sure.”

            “You can’t know that.” The anguish in Cas’s voice was clear. Dean was grateful that Cas had turned his face toward the window, because he didn’t want to see how broken the expression that accompanied it was. Dean hesitated for a second, and then took his right hand off the wheel to give Cas’s shoulder a brief clasp. It was the only thing he knew how to do in this situation. It hit a little too close to home for Dean to try to comfort Cas with meaningless platitudes, even if that had been the kind of thing Dean _did_. All he could think about, as he alternated between watching the road and sneaking glances at the back of Cas’s dark head, was how he had felt after John had sold his soul.

            That was the first moment that Dean allowed some of the hard knot of anger and betrayal that Castiel had caused to loosen in his chest.

            A few more moments ticked by before the silence was broken again, this time by Daphne. Her voice caused Dean to jump slightly – he had completely forgotten she was even in the backseat. “I know it’s a rough subject” she said “But who’s Bobby? And Crowley? And what are Leviathans?”

            Dean opened his mouth to tell her that it was none of her damn business, thank you very much, and she should just shut her cakehole and be grateful that they’d even let her come on this trip. But, before he could get the words out, Cas was answering, without even turning his face from the window. “Robert Singer was a Hunter, and one of the best men that I have ever known,” he began, sorrow evident in every syllable.

            As Cas continued talking, filling Daphne in on what had happened and who they were fighting, Dean glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She didn’t look like she was paying much attention to what Cas was saying, and Dean was about to get angry, but then she caught his eye in the mirror. She shrugged slightly and gave Dean a small smile. He realized, then, that she wasn’t being nosy; she just understood that Cas needed to talk about these things, and not to someone who was involved in them, as Dean was.

            This should have made Dean feel better, to know that his (ex?) friend had spent the last few months in the care of someone who understood him so well. Instead, he found himself scowling at the road, left out as Cas and Daphne continued their quiet conversation.

***

            Sam lay in his bed in the hospital, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the gritty feeling in his eyes. He was happy to have helped Marin out, but he couldn’t help but wish that his own problems could be banished with a bit of salt and a lighter.

            He hadn’t seen Lucifer in a while, since before he had fried Marin’s brother, but he supposed that Lucifer didn’t _need_ to torment him anymore. He had done his job well. Sam, who knew the limits of his body better than most, due to the sheer amount of damage he’d had done to him in his life, realized that he didn’t have much longer to live. He’d be dead within two days, barring some sort of miracle.

            He just wished Dean were here.

            As if that thought had somehow summoned him, Dean burst through the door at that very moment, followed by Castiel and some random woman.

            Sam closed his eyes and turned away, because this was a whole new level of skullfuckery that Lucifer was pulling – he changed into other people with an alarming frequency, but he had never actually _cloned_ himself.

            And shit, Sam needed to remember that this was _all in his head_. Lucifer _was not real_.

            Dean was yelling something, all gruff and manfully worried, and Castiel replied in that deep rumble. Sam was sort of impressed, actually, that his subconscious had managed to remember that voice so clearly, given how long it had been since he’d last heard it. The woman’s higher tones joined the conversation, and she was probably the element of this hallucination that disturbed Sam the most. It made perfect sense that, in his last moments, he would hallucinate his brother and Cas, but Sam was reasonably sure he had never seen this woman in his life. Maybe she was someone he had met while he was soulless? If that was the case, he should probably apologize to her, hallucination or not, because he had been a mean bastard when he was soulless. But wait, hadn’t his subconscious been in Hell with his soul? Or was it connected to his body? Whatever, he was too tired to contemplate the implications of what happened when a body was separated from its soul. He was too tired for _anything_ , really.

            Sam vaguely registered Dean’s voice, saying “Sam? Sammy?”, but it sounded like he was speaking through water or something.

            Then, a hand touched his forehead, and everything went black.

***

            Castiel pulled his hand away from Sam’s forehead and turned to Dean, who looked both impatient and expectant. “I’ve muted the hallucinations so that he can sleep, but, as I expected, I cannot do anything to remove them.”

            Dean had been gearing up to hear something like this ever since Colorado, but he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Some part of him, however irrational it was given the last year and a half, still held the belief that Cas could fix anything with a press of his fingers. He knew it wasn’t true, of course, but this was the being that had pulled him out of Hell, who had once brought Bobby back from the dead with a touch, right in front of Dean. He thought he could be forgiven for expecting that Cas could magically restore Sammy as well.

            It was better than nothing, though. Dean let out a breath, letting some of the tension in his body melt away, and said “Ok, well, he’s getting some sleep, which is the important thing. We’ll wait for him to wake up, and then get him somewhere safe to strategize.”

            Daphne, who had proven herself more than once in the months that Castiel had lived with her to be practical to a fault, interjected. “The doctors are probably going to want to keep him here a little longer. It’s probably a good idea too; who knows what going that long without sleep can do to somebody?”

            “Maybe that would be a good idea for a normal person,” Dean shot back at her. “But Sammy’s a Hunter. For one thing, he’s been injured a hell of a lot worse than this and bounced back with no problem. For another, we don’t have time for him to get his beauty rest. It’s kinda our job to save the world, and I can’t do it without him.”

            Dean was heartily sick of Daphne by this point. He had never really been able to relate well to people who weren’t Hunters; they didn’t seem to get the urgency, didn’t seem to have the same burning need to save people that those in the life did. Not to mention, Dean didn’t have much to talk to them about. He could hardly swap stories of hunts gone bad or compare kills with someone who had no idea of the true dangers of the world around them. That was most of the reason that he and Lisa hadn’t worked out, really. Dean simply wasn’t cut out for a civilian’s life. He often wondered how much longer he would’ve stayed with them had Sam never showed up.

            Anyway, besides Daphne’s naiveté and uselessness with weapons, there was something else about her that set Dean’s teeth on edge. Every time he saw her casually touch Cas, every time she made a nonchalant allusion to something that had happened while they were living together, Dean felt something dark and ugly rise in his chest.

            It was rising again now, and it was nice to know that he apparently didn’t like her messing around with Sammy as much as he didn’t like her messing around with Cas. She opened her mouth to reply, and Dean was about three seconds away from telling the bitch to run off and let the _men_ handle the situation.

            Cas interrupted, though, apparently sensing the tension in the room (and what was the deal with _that_? Dean wondered. The Cas he had known was fairly oblivious to these things, or at least didn’t really care if people got in fights around him). “Dean. I’ve been thinking, and I believe I’ve figured out a way that I can cure Sam for good.”

            Christ, that was the best news Dean had heard in _years_. “Yeah?” he prompted, tension with Daphne all but forgotten as hope flared in his chest.

            Cas looked hesitant about his idea though, and that tripped the alarm bells in Dean’s mind. He had a feeling that he would not be entirely on board with this plan.

            “Well,” Cas began “I’m not certain, but I believe that things like this can be…shifted, in a way. It’s complex, but the idea is that these memories cannot be destroyed, but can be transferred to a different state, like what Death did with the wall. If I am correct, then I _should_ be able to take Sam’s memories, and hence his hallucinations, upon myself. I believe that I will handle them much better than Sam, given my power.”

            Yep, Dean had been right. He did _not_ like this plan. “You _believe_ you will handle them better?” he asked, voice lowering dangerously.

            “Like I said, I am not certain this will even work – Sam’s is an entirely unique situation, after all, and I’m quite sure that nothing like this has even been attempted before.”

            That, right there, was a textbook example of avoiding the question. Dean should know, it was one of his favorite tactics to employ when Sam got too nosy for anyone’s good. Because of this, he was also well versed in how to combat the method. “You _believe_ you will handle them better?” he repeated, this time stepping forward slightly, using his height advantage to loom over Cas.

            Cas, who could admittedly kill Dean with a glance, didn’t respond to his looming as most people might (by stepping backwards, babbling confessions, etc.). In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice. Then again, the weirdo had always been a close talker; he probably thought Dean just wanted to show interest in the conversation or something. However, Cas _did_ seem to respond to the repeated question. He sighed. “I don’t believe that I will come out of this…unscathed, if that’s what you mean.”

            Typical Cas understatement. “You mean, all of Sammy’s crazy will transfer to you, making _you_ crazy.”

            Cas met Dean’s eyes. “Most likely, yes.” He conceded.

            “And _how_ will that help us, exactly?”

            “You will have Sam back, at full capacity.”

            “And we won’t have an angel ally anymore.”

            “You’ll be better off than you were yesterday. Besides, it’s not as though I will be much help against Leviathans – they can kill angels as easily as they can kill humans.”

            “We still can’t afford to lose your knowledge and your powers, Cas!” Dean’s voice was rising. “Not to mention, what happens if it causes you to go crazy like the _souls_ caused you to go crazy?”

            Cas fell silent at that, guilt and surprise crossing his face. Dean felt kinda bad for bringing it up but it was a valid point – Cas was enormously powerful, even back at his old angel status. If he flew completely off the handle, had a ‘psychotic break’ like Sam? He could level continents.

            “You could kill me afterwards,” Cas said, voice much softer than it had been a minute ago. “I believe an angel blade will work on me, now that I have no Purgatory souls in my system.”

            Dean was taken aback by this. Sure, he knew that Cas was sorry about what he had done, and felt guilty for hurting Sam, but he hadn’t expected Cas to sacrifice his life for it. Then again, when had Cas ever hesitated before to put his life on the line for the Winchesters? Rebelling against heaven, facing down the archangels, Holy-Fire-bombing Michael – he had done all of these things, without a single complaint, for them. For _Dean_ , really, if he thought about it.

            Not to mention, Cas’s role models for humanity were the Winchesters, who had self-sacrifice down to an art form.

            Dean fought to keep any trace of emotion out of his voice as he said “Don’t all our problems start with one of us throwing ourselves in the fire for someone else?”

            “Many of our problems have ended that way as well, Dean. When Sam threw himself into the Pit to end the apocalypse – that saved the world, eliminated the evil that he had unleashed.”

            “And then he got Lazarus’d and look where we are now!” Dean threw his arms wide, as though he were trying to encompass the sheer amount of shit they were in.

            “Also my fault. Had I resurrected him _properly -_ ”

            “He still woulda been in the cage.”

            “For a very short period of time. I imagine his mental state would be much less affected than it is now.”

            Dean was heartily sick of this conversation. “Cas, you’re not doing this. End of discussion.” He stormed out of the room, wanting to search out the shitty hospital coffee. Cas didn’t follow him.

***

As Sam slowly returned to consciousness, he again heard the voice of his brother. This time, though, he didn’t immediately write it off as a hallucination. His head was clearer than it had been in weeks, and, though he could still feel the Hellfire at the back of his mind, it was much less pronounced. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times as the world came into focus.

            Across the small room, Dean was sitting on the table that had been Lucifer’s favorite place to hang out. The same woman from before was leaning on the table next to him, and Cas stood a little bit apart from them both.

            Dean and Cas seemed to be in some sort of argument, but both of them stopped speaking immediately when Sam let out a bleary “Dean?”

            In an instant, Dean was at Sam’s side. “Sammy! Feelin’ better?”

            Sam rubbed at his eyes and pulled himself into a sitting position with a little difficulty. “Yeah, actually. What happened? How’d I fall asleep?”

            Dean beamed at this, his smile larger than Sam had seen it since before Bobby died. Hell, since before _Cas_ died. Speaking of which… “Cas worked some of his mojo on you,” Dean replied. “He says he can’t take the memories and stuff away permanently, but he can help you to sleep.”

            Sam grinned, hopeful. “Thanks, Cas.”

            Cas looked up to acknowledge Sam, but didn’t quite meet his eyes. He had migrated, while Dean and Sam were having their reunion, to press against a wall. He was hunched over, looking like he was purposefully trying to make himself smaller, and when he answered “You’re welcome, Sam,” his voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

            Sam was a little surprised at the reception he got from Castiel. He supposed it made sense though; he knew what it was like to feel guilty before someone. He wanted to reassure Cas, to tell him just how much he understood, but there were far more pressing matters on his mind right now. For example, the mysterious woman. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he said, turning to her. “What’s your name?” Sam gave her the ‘look how sensitive and harmless I am’ face that he had perfected over the years of working with his gruff, socially impaired brother and was gratified when it led to a blush rising over the woman’s cheeks.

            “I’m Daphne” she offered. “And as for why I’m here…it’s a long story. Castiel’s been living with me for the past six months.”

            And there was the other question Sam was so curious about. He made to form a question, to ask Cas just what in the hell had happened to him, and why he had stayed away and doomed Sam to six months of Emo Dean (Not that Sam would say that last part out loud. Near death experience or no, that would surely earn him a beating). Before he could form the words, though, the doctor breezed into the room, eyes planted firmly on his charts. “Sam, how are you feeling?” he asked, sounding as though he didn’t really care about the answer.

            His dismissive tone caused Sam to answer “I feel great, Doc!” with far more enthusiasm than was really necessary (especially considering he could still see Lucifer over the man’s shoulder, pulling ridiculous faces).

            That got the doctor’s attention. He looked up from his chart, surprised. “Indeed!! You certainly look much better.” He crossed the room in a few quick strides and began to examine Sam, first shining a pencil light in his eyes to track the motion, then using a stethoscope and taking his blood pressure in quick succession.

            The doctor stepped away from Sam then, looking quite shocked. “Amazing,” he muttered, almost under his breath, before raising his voice slightly to say “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a quicker or more complete turnaround in all my years of practicing medicine, Mr. Smith. It looks as though you have someone watching out for you up above.”

            Dean, who had been well-behaved until this point, let out a snort and caught Castiel’s eyes.

            Sam smiled. “Yeah, something like that. So, when can I get out of here?” He was thoroughly sick of staring at these same four walls and being inactive. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so strong an urge to kill something before.

            The doctor looked wary. “I think it may be wise to keep you under observation for another few days, Mr. Smith. We want to be quite sure you won’t relapse.”

            Dean spoke up. “Look, why don’t you just write him up a prescription for some crazy pills, and then we’ll be out of your hair.” He tried for a charming smile.

            The doctor was apparently immune to the power of Dean’s charm, however, for his frown deepened and he replied “I really don’t think that would be a good idea. Psychotic breaks tend to leave the mind vulnerable. Though I’m sure you would take good care of your brother, Mr. Smith, I assume you don’t have any medical training. There are many subtle warning signs of ill mental health that you will be unable to pick up.” Satisfied, the doctor turned back to Sam.

            Dean, never one to take no for an answer, turned to Cas and began gesturing and moving his eyebrows in a comical manner. Sam, who had lived with Dean for twenty-nine years, was able to understand the question Dean was asking Cas quite clearly: to create a distraction and then BAMF them out of the hospital.

            However, Cas was apparently not as fluent in Dean’s Eyebrows as Sam was, and he just looked confused as hell. Dean rolled his eyes and made an ‘exploding’ gesture, mouthing the word ‘boom’ and raising his eyebrows so high that his eyes bugged out. It was hilarious to watch, and Sam was suddenly quite grateful for Daphne, who had drawn the doctor into a conversation as soon as she had realized that Dean was trying to communicate with Cas.

            When Cas continued to show no indication that he understood what Dean was going on about (he was beginning to look _pissed_ too, apparently multi-dimensional wavelengths of celestial intent didn’t appreciate not knowing things,) Dean pointed to his own head and mouthed ‘read my mind’, then began to concentrate so hard on projecting his thoughts or whatever, that he looked like he was trying to pass a kidney stone. The doctor, who had gotten bored of talking about psychosis with Daphne, chose this moment to look back at Dean. “Mr. Smith, are you -” he began to ask, worried.

            It was at that moment that Cas got with the program, and a loud explosion sounded throughout the hospital, followed by screams. Sam looked at Cas, worried that he had hurt some of the patients by accident, but his face was impassive. The doctor paled and ran from the room, tossing a quick “I’ll be back in a moment, Mr. Smith!” over his shoulder. As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Cas grabbed Dean and Daphne’s hands, leading them to where Sam lay. Sam reached out to touch Cas’s forearm, unbidden, and then the hospital room blinked out of existence.

***

            They re-materialized inside Bobby’s safe house a fraction of a second later. The Winchesters, though used to angel travel, hadn’t felt it in quite a while. It was almost reassuring, in a strange kind of way, the nausea and disorientation that came from it.

            Sam felt sorry for Daphne, though. She was pale as fuck, and had staggered over to fall on the couch as soon as they touched down.

            Cas, predictably, was completely oblivious to his comrades’ discomfort. He looked around the cabin in mild interest before asking “What is this place? I’ve never been here before.”

            Dean had darted out the front door a few seconds previously, probably to get their supplies from the car, so Sam looked up from the glass of water he was getting for Daphne and answered “Bobby had safe houses like this set up all over America, y’know, for Hunters to use if they needed a place to lay low for a while.”

            Dean ducked back in the house. “Also ‘cause he was a paranoid bastard and couldn’t stand to keep his precious books all in one place. Plan paid off though.” He turned to Cas “Dude, where the fuck is our car?” he demanded. “I know it’s not Baby, but there’s a whole lotta shit in there that we don’t want the cops to find.”

            Cas looked taken aback (he tended to forget, sometimes, that humans couldn’t just teleport anywhere they wanted to), but he obediently flashed out of existence, the sound of the car touching down outside less than a second later heralding his return. When he popped back up in the exact place that he had left, Sam took the chance to ask the question that had been niggling at the back of his mind. “At the hospital…No one got hurt, right?”

            Cas looked distinctly unimpressed. “Of course not, Sam. Humans just tend to get hysterical when many lights explode at the same time.”

            Sam nodded slowly, not entirely convinced. “Riiiight. Well, thanks for that.”

            Cas acknowledged him with a tilt of the head.

            Dean, from where he was rummaging around in the fridge, called out “Alright. Now let’s figure out what our next move is gonna be.”

            Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean’s back. “Our next move?” he repeated.

            Dean walked back over to the couch, sandwich and beer in hand, and flopped on the couch next to Daphne. “Yeah, we still gotta figure out how to get your hallucinations to piss off for good, and we gotta gank Dick.”

            “What, you’re all optimistic about this all the sudden?” Sam asked, sliding on the couch on the opposite side of Daphne.

            Dean took a bite of his sandwich. “Well, you’re not on the one way train to Crazyville anymore, and we’ve got an angel on our side again. I say that evens out the odds a little,” he said, speaking thickly through his mouthful of food.

            Sam shot his brother a truly disgusted look, only to see the exact same expression on Daphne’s face. “Alright, any ideas?”

            Cas, from where he was standing across the room, spoke up. “I believe I have a way -”

            “ _No_.” Dean interrupted, good mood evaporating. “We’ve talked about this, Cas.”

            “Let him talk, Dean,” Sam said, bitchface firmly in place. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

            Dean rolled his eyes. “ _Fine_ , but for the record, I’m not up for it.” He focused back on his sandwich.

            Sam turned to Cas, expectantly, and Cas detailed his plan to Sam.

            For once, Sam was on the same page as his brother. “Cas, I’m not going to let you do that,” he said, his voice gentle.

            Cas’s eyes narrowed and it began to look as though the argument he had with Dean would be repeated.

            Then, Daphne spoke up. “Wait a second. If you can shift Sam’s hallucinations to yourself, shouldn’t you be able to shift them to someone else?”

            Cas paused, thinking it over. “…Like I said, I’m not entirely sure that this will work. But I see no reason why it should not be possible to shift them to another.” He admitted grudgingly. “However, there is no way that I am giving them to you, Daphne. Or to you.” The last part of Cas’s sentence was directed to Dean.

            “That’s not what I was thinking.” Daphne said. “What if you could take care of the hallucinations and your Leviathan problems at the same time?”

            “Give them to _Dick_ ,” Sam breathed, eyes lighting up. “That’s… _genius_ ”.

            Daphne blushed, but determinedly focused her eyes on Cas. “Do you think you could do it?”

            Cas nodded slowly, cautious excitement written on his face. “I believe so. But it will be dangerous – I’ll likely have to touch both Sam and the Leviathan at the same time, and it will take at least a few seconds for the transference to occur.”           

            Dean leaned forward. “We already know how to slow them down – shooting ‘em with Borax burns them, and cutting off their heads will put them outta commission for at least a little while.”

            Sam looked at his brother, who was grinning maniacally. “And even if the hallucinations don’t affect Dick the same way they affect me, they’ll be gone for good.”

            “Sure, they don’t need to sleep,” Dean replied, “but it can’t be easy to lead a plot for world domination with Hellfire in your brain.”

            “And once you take out the leader, the rest of them will have to regroup, which will give you time to get the rest of them,” said Daphne.

            Dean turned to her. “I take back everything I said in Colorado.” He grinned, offering her his hand. “Welcome to the team.”

***

            Of course, they couldn’t put their plan into motion immediately – Sam still needed to rest, they needed to stock up on supplies, and they needed to figure out how in the hell they were going to get Dick alone.

            Not being able to follow through on the plan left Dean with so much pent-up energy that he practically vibrated with it. In the week that they stayed at the cabin, Sam rested and Cas sat alone staring at a wall (this was apparently what he did when he was summoning his Epic Angelic Knowledge to come up with a plan). Meanwhile, Dean:

  1. Did a complete overhaul on their car,
  2. Cleaned and tested every single firearm they had with them,
  3. Sharpened every single knife, even the ones that really didn’t need it,
  4. Cleaned the entire cottage,



            and

  1. Managed to stock up on a truly obscene amount of salt and Borax.



            Sam was used to his brother’s fits of mania, but they always stressed him out. Sure, he didn’t like being inactive for _too_ long – he had been thoroughly sick of the hospital, after all – but he tended to err on the side of caution and planning, as opposed to Dean’s ‘kill now, ask questions never’ mentality.

            He tended to deal with these moods of Dean’s by avoiding him and letting him work his frustration out on other things, lest he be drawn into a fight. He was grateful for the amount of sleep he was now getting with Castiel’s help, partly for this reason.

            Mostly, though, he was grateful because he felt so much better. He wasn’t cured completely, but the hallucinations didn’t follow him into sleep, and Sam had been dealing with shit like this for so long that it was mostly par for the course, honestly.

            It had been five days since they had ‘poofed’ out of the hospital room and into the cabin, and they had decided the night before that they would attack in three days’ time. Cas, when he hadn’t been thinking really hard at the wall, had done some subtle recon on Dick. He had reported that the head honcho Leviathan went home to Dick’s mansion every night, probably to keep up with appearances. The place, Cas said, was largely guarded by human means – only a few Leviathans, in the guise of security guards, roamed it.

            Cas, Dean, and Sam, armed with spray guns of Borax, machetes, and angel mojo, would break into the house, hopefully catching Dick by surprise long enough to complete the transfer.

            Sam walked into the kitchen, mentally going over the plan one more time. He had just woken up from his four millionth nap, and was absolutely starving.

            He found Daphne already in the kitchen, supervising something in the oven.

            Although she had come up with the idea for their next move in the first place, and although she had proven herself invaluable when it came to tactical planning, Daphne was still largely left out of the proceedings. At the end of the day, she was still a civilian – she had no weapons training and Cas’s casual use of his powers still freaked her out a bit – so it had been decided that she wouldn’t go with them on their mission.

            It was a testament to Daphne’s intelligence that she hadn’t argued this point, even though she had clearly wanted to. Instead, she had appointed herself unofficial caretaker of the group, cooking Sam and Dean meals, making sure Castiel got some human interaction once in a while, and convincing Dean that sleep really was a good idea, and that maybe he should limit himself to four cups of coffee a day.

            Really, she had been an absolute saint to put up with the special brand of crazy that was the Winchesters and their angel for so long. Sam smiled at her as he went to get himself something to drink. “What’re you making?” he asked, craning his neck to see into the oven.

            Daphne threw him a smirk. “Potato skins. I didn’t want to put up with Dean’s bellyaching that he missed diner food anymore.”

            “Sounds delicious.”

            “Hopefully. It might be hard to believe, but I’ve never exactly been Suzie Housewife. This is the first time I’ve made any of these things.”

            Sam chuckled, dimpling. “What, you never made any big meals for Cas?” he joked.

            She scowled good-naturedly. “Actually, I did try to cook for him when he first showed up. Found it hard to believe that he didn’t eat, y’know? He looked _really_ confused and kinda disgusted when I offered him burgers, so I never tried again.”

            Sam winced slightly. “Yeah, burgers weren’t a good idea. Remind me to tell you what happened with Famine, when this is all over.”

            “Famine?”

            “One of the horsemen of the Apocalypse.” Sam clarified. “Did Cas ever tell you about the Apocalypse?”

            “I know that there _was_ one, and that somehow that’s how you ended up in Hell and got stuck hallucinating the Devil, but that’s about it.”

            “Well, it may not be something you _want_ to know.” Sam cautioned. “In fact, maybe it’d be better if we didn’t tell you – easier for you to go back to a normal life, that way.”

            Daphne looked at him sharply. “Sam, my life hasn’t been normal since I brought a naked angel to my house.” She said, her gentle voice contradicting the expression on her face. “Might as well go all in, don’t you think?”

            “Maybe. It’s just that we don’t exactly have a good track record with civilians. Most of the people we tell about what’s out there? End up dead.” Sam wasn’t exactly sure how their light conversation had turned this serious.

            “It was my decision to get tangled up in this, Sam.” She said, turning fully away from the oven. “Remember, Dean gave me a choice – I could have stayed back in Colorado. I appreciate your worry, but you don’t need to treat me like I’m completely helpless.”

            Sam ducked his head. “I’m sorry. Bad memories, y’know?”

            Daphne nodded, turning back to the stove. “I understand. But knowing more won’t automatically put me in danger. I’m going to be sitting tight in this cabin while you guys are having all the fun, remember?”

            “Yeah.” They were silent for a moment, before Daphne, in a mischievous voice, said “So, Cas and Dean…”

            Sam smirked back at her. “…Are a couple of emotionally stunted idiots?”

            “Exactly. They are _painfully_ in love with each other, and I’m not just saying that because Cas told me about his feelings.”

            “Cas told you he loved Dean?” Sam was kinda shocked at this – he had assumed that the angel wasn’t fully aware of his own feelings.

            “Oh yeah. Had to get him absolutely _wasted_ to get him to admit it, but once the floodgates opened?” She made a gesture reminiscent of rushing water with her hands. “It all came out.”

            “How much alcohol did _that_ take?”

            She groaned. “ _So_ much alcohol. He literally cleaned out my entire liquor cabinet, which was pretty well stocked, mind you, and then sent me out for more.”

            “One time,” Sam began, leaning closer to Daphne and lowering his voice like he was about to tell her some great secret, “He drank an _entire liquor store_.”

            “Jesus.” Daphne shook her head, mirth evident on her face. “Needless to say, that was the only time _that_ happened. Has Dean ever told you how he feels about Cas?”

            Sam snorted. “Yeah _right_. Dean’s the most fucking emotionally constipated person in the world; he wouldn’t admit _that_ on pain of death. I know the warning signs, though, and he’s got it _bad_.”

            “They really need to just _fuck_ already.” She said. “It would do them both a world of good.”

            “I’m not entirely sure I want that to happen, honestly.” Sam said. “I can’t decide if that would make them more or less insufferable.”

            “True.”

            The oven beeped then, signaling that Daphne’s potato skins were done, and the cabin door slammed open, signaling the return of Dean.

            That meant that Sam and Daphne’s conversation was essentially over. As she shot him a smile and shooed him out of the kitchen, he found himself disappointed.

            He couldn’t remember the last time that he had made a connection like that with another person.

            Especially a woman.

***

            Dean stomped into the house, frustrated. There were still three _fucking_ days left until they were gonna go after Dick, and he couldn’t think of anything else that needed doing. He was practically climbing the walls, here.

            He nodded at Sam, who was exiting the kitchen with a glass of water in hand, but didn’t attempt any further conversation with him – Sammy was the main reason they were waiting so long, and he needed his rest.

            Something in the kitchen smelled delicious. Dean followed his nose, greeting Daphne with a “What’s that? Smells good.”

            “Potato skins” she answered absently. “Food’ll be ready in like 20 minutes, if you don’t bother me.” She smiled at him, taking away any of the sting her words might’ve had.

            “Alright, alright, I’m leaving!” Dean started to back away, hands held up. “Don’t wanna delay the first time you make _real_ food.”

            Daphne smacked him on the shoulder. “Ass. Go bother Castiel or Sam, would you?”

            “Fine. Later, sweet cheeks!” He gave her an exaggerated wink as he left, ignoring the middle finger she threw him.

            Daphne had really grown on him in the past week. The slight resentment he had felt towards her since Colorado had evaporated when she had single-handedly solved every problem they had in one fell swoop, and her subsequent experiments with cooking had elevated her to one of his favorite people.

            She reminded him of Jo, he mused as he left the cottage, looking for Cas. They were both feisty, and took exactly none of Dean’s shit, though Daphne lacked the hard edge that growing up around Hunters had given Jo.

            He shook his head, as though that could dislodge these thoughts. It was still painful to think about Jo, especially after the Osiris incident. Fucking Pagan Gods.   

            He found Cas sitting near a tree, and plopped down next to him without waiting for an invitation. “Hey Cas.”

            Cas turned his head, slowly, to meet Dean’s eyes. “Hello, Dean.” he said.

            “Why so solemn?”

            Cas lifted his shoulders in an awkward, overly controlled shrug. “I am…worried about attacking the Leviathans. I cannot be much help, I’m afraid.”

            Dean nudged him with his shoulder. “Sure you will be. If nothing else, you’re fast. And remember, me ‘n Sam have survived more than a few hunts without your help.”

            Cas smiled slightly. “I am aware that you and Sam are not helpless,” he acknowledged, “but Leviathans are like nothing you’ve ever faced.”

            “You say that like we haven’t ganked a few of them already.”

            Cas shrugged again, turning his head to track the movement of a bird. “I suppose there is just too much uncertainty in this plan for me to feel entirely comfortable.”

            Dean grinned. “Uncertain is my favorite type of plan.”

            “I’ve noticed.” Cas replied drily.

            The two sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before Dean spoke again. “Listen, Cas” he began, voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “About that whole you-gobbling-souls-and-going-crazy thing…”

            Cas’s back visibly stiffened, but he gave no other reply.

            “I just wanted to say that I understand why you did what you did.”

            Cas flashed him a disbelieving glance, and Dean amended “Why you did _most_ of what you did. I’m still a little pissed about the Sam thing. But it’s not like I haven’t done worse trying to save the world. Let he who is without sin, right?”

            Cas didn’t respond for a few seconds, and, when he did, his voice was nearly a whisper. “Thank you, Dean. I am not sure I agree with you, but it means a great deal to me, nonetheless.”

            Dean shifted, uncomfortable with the emotional conversation, but determined to see it through. “Hey, making messes and then cleaning them up is the Winchester Way,” he joked. “You’re practically one of the family, now.”

            Cas looked back at him, surprised. He knew, as well as Sam did, how sacred the concept of ‘family’ was to Dean. Even if ‘brotherly’ didn’t exactly describe the feelings that Castiel had for Dean, he was still honored by the sentiment. “Thank you, Dean,” he said again.

            Dean cleared his throat, then got to his feet and held out a hand to Cas. “Alright. That’s enough of _that_ conversation. Come inside, Daphne’s making food.”

            Cas took Dean’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up, an amused quirk to his mouth. “I still don’t need to eat,” he reminded Dean.

            “She’s making _potato skins_ , Cas. They’re like French fries, only better. You like fries, remember?” Dean threw a casual arm over Cas’s shoulders, steering him towards the entrance to the cabin.

            Cas felt a warmth fill his chest cavity, the like of which he hadn’t felt since the days when he had fought to prevent the Apocalypse, nearly fallen. “I remember,” he said

***

            Three days later, everything was ready for the assault on Dick. Shafting Dick. The Dick affair. (Dean’s new go-to strategy for fighting off boredom was creating Dick-related puns.)

            The Borax spray guns were filled to capacity, and each Winchester had three different tools that could be used for beheading hidden on their person. Cas, meanwhile, had opted to use his angel blade instead of a knife or machete – he was much more comfortable with it, and this was hardly the time to educate him in the ways of human weaponry.  

            They gathered in the living room section of the cottage, the men going over their plan one last time while Daphne looked on and worried. She didn’t want to lose these men – Castiel, who had been part of her life for half a year, who had given her a purpose and a direction that she had been missing, and Sam and Dean, who had wiggled their way into her heart in just a week.

            Sam turned to her and began to reiterate what she had been hearing for the last three days: “If we’re not back by morning -”

            “Call the number I have in my pocket, tell the nice people what I know, go back to Akron,” Daphne recited obediently, just barely managing to avoid rolling her eyes.

            Sam picked up her discontent anyway. “Just making sure you remember,” he said with a smile.

            At that, Daphne really did roll her eyes. “My attention span isn’t _that_ short,” she pointed out. “Besides, I won’t need it – you’ll be back.” She tried her best to insert bravado into her voice that she didn’t actually feel.

            “That’s the spirit!” Dean called, from where he was checking over his machete for the third time. He was the only person in the room who wasn’t exuding a palpable nervousness. Which, of course, didn’t mean he _wasn’t_ nervous – just that he was much better at hiding it than his companions. He tucked the machete into his belt, apparently satisfied with its sharpness, and looked up. “Ready?” he asked.

            Castiel nodded, and drifted over to where Dean was standing. Sam hesitated, though, sweeping Daphne up into a hug. “Try not to worry about us too much, alright?” he muttered into her hair.

            Daphne let out a shaky breath, bringing her arms up to wrap around Sam’s torso. “Says the guy who keeps drilling me on what to do if you don’t come back,” she joked weakly.

            Sam gave her one last squeeze, and then let her go. He didn’t want to hold her long enough for Dean to get suspicious and start making smart-ass comments.

            No matter how true they may be.

            His discretion didn’t work, though. The smirk on Dean’s face, when Sam turned to face his companions, was clearly a precursor to at least a wolf-whistle, and even Cas looked knowing in a smug angel sort of way.

            Any remark Dean might have been gearing up towards, however, was thwarted when Daphne went over to give him a hug of his own, rising up on her tiptoes to put her arms around his neck and moving gingerly to avoid the weaponry he was bristling with.

            Dean looked surprised, but returned the hug, albeit for a much shorter amount of time than Sam had.

            Daphne smiled at Dean when she pulled away. “Give ‘em hell from me, alright?”

            Dean gave her a lazy salute. “Yes ma’am.”

            Lastly, Daphne turned to Castiel, burying her nose in the angel’s neck. “Don’t get yourself killed. I’ll be _so_ pissed.”

            “I will do my best.”

            Daphne released Cas and stepped back, surveying the three men. “I’ll see you all in a few hours,” she said, with a decisive nod.

            Castiel smiled at her and said “You will,” before touching the fingers of his left hand to Dean’s forehead, and the fingers of his right to Sam’s, whisking them away.

***

            Dick’s mansion was obscenely large and tasteless in that way that only the truly wealthy and out-of-touch could manage. It looked to be entirely constructed out of glass and chrome, as though the architect had been going for a futuristic feel, suiting the CEO of a modern business. However, some idiot had decided to whack a great big pair of marble columns on the front of the house, as though they were trying to imitate the White House or something.

            The Winchesters and Castiel landed inside the security gate and next to a fountain with a figurine of a fish spitting water all over everything, but off to the side of the entrance. The college-educated part of Sam’s mind despaired. “This is the ugliest fucking mansion I’ve ever seen,” he whispered.

            Dean, who still looked a little green from the angel travel, gave him a _look_. “ _That’s_ what you’re focusing on?” he returned. “How about the fact that it’s _fucking giant_? How are we gonna find Dick?”

            Sam gave him a _look_ right back. “Angel?” he said in his snottiest voice (which was _very_ snotty), gesturing to Castiel.

            Dean shook his head, trying to clear the last bit of fuzziness in his brain. He’d noticed that the further Cas teleported them, the more pronounced the negative effects were, and Dick’s mansion was halfway across the country from Bobby’s safe house. “Oh, yeah,” he said, and cursed himself for sounding so stupid.

            Next to Dean, Castiel stiffened. “There are Leviathans approaching,” he said, the gravel in his voice even more pronounced in a whisper.

            “Right,” said Dean grimly, reaching for his Borax gun. “Let’s take ‘em out.”

            Sam grabbed Dean’s gun arm, prompting Dean to curse under his breath. “No, that’ll just draw attention to us. We’ve gotta hide.” Sam’s whisper was frantic, and Dean, reluctant though he was to do something as cowardly as _hiding_ , saw the wisdom in Sam’s plan. If Dick caught wind of them and escaped unscathed, he was sure to increase his security in the future. He wasn’t the sort of man (monster?) who made the same mistake twice.

            They only had one shot at this.

            They stole behind the fountain, grateful that the water continuously bubbling from it covered the sound of their footfalls.

            Not a moment too soon, for the two Leviathans rounded the corner as soon as they were hidden.

            To Sam and Dean’s dismay, they recognized one of their enemies: Edgar. They had hoped, _planned_ , even, that Dick’s favorite henchman would be out supervising something important, and wouldn’t be in the same place as his leader.

            Apparently, Dick saw _himself_ as ‘something important’, which was just typical, really.

            The other Leviathan, who was having a heated discussion in low tones with Edgar, was one that Sam and Dean hadn’t tangled with before. It occupied a female vessel, a no-nonsense looking woman in a security guard’s uniform, solidly built, with hair cropped short.

            They knew how intelligent the Leviathans were, so it was a relief that they evidently couldn’t see through solid marble. As their voices and footsteps faded into the distance, Dean turned to Castiel. “How many are there?” he asked, all business.

            Castiel concentrated for a moment, blue eyes sliding out of focus. “Only four, including the two that we just saw, and not including Dick,” he said. He paused as his companions let out twin sighs of relief before adding “One guards the security gate, the other guards the room where Dick is staying. The two we just saw look like they are patrolling the grounds.”

            Though the presence of Edgar was a setback, they had planned for at least twice as many Leviathans to be on the property.

            Sam was cautious about this stroke of good luck. As the trio got up and began picking their way to the front door (popping right into Dick’s room was out of the question; Cas reported that the house itself was warded so that it could not be entered by supernatural means,) he asked, “Is there any way they could be hiding themselves from you?”

            Cas hesitated, slightly, before answering “Not that I know of. But we should still be vigilant.” This last part wasn’t delivered in an accusatory manner, but Sam couldn’t help but think that it was directed towards Dean, who was striding several steps in front of he and Cas.

            It seemed like Dean picked up on that undertone, too, for he slowed down until he was keeping pace with the others, wedging himself in between them, with Castiel to his left and Sam to his right. He didn’t look happy about it, though. All of the energy that had been building up in him was _so close_ to release and he could hardly wait to take out his rage, pain, and frustration on Dick Roman’s smug face.

            When they reached the front door, Sam and Dean came to a silent consensus, and let Cas open it. To their relief, no bad guys were hiding behind the door, and they managed to slip inside the mansion with minimal fuss.

            They found themselves in a large, echoing foyer, with a checkerboard patterned floor. Dean half expected to be greeted by some creepy butler. Or a ghost. Or a ghost butler.

            As he was entertaining these thoughts, Dean looked back at Cas, who had gone pale. _Shit_. “Cas, what is it?” he asked, automatically reaching back to steady the angel when he wobbled.

            Cas swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent in his pale throat. “The wards that the Leviathans put up are dampening my power,” he explained, leaning rather heavily into Dean. “I couldn’t sense it from the outside.

            Dean and Sam exchanged wary looks. Not good. “Can you still sense them?” Sam asked.

            Castiel nodded, pushing off of Dean to stand upright again. “Yes. I can no longer fly, nor can I smite them, but my senses are unaffected.”

            Ok, not the end of the world, then. Cas took a few deep breaths, shutting his eyes. When he opened them, he was still pale, but his determination had returned. “I will be alright,” he assured the brothers. “I was merely taken aback by the sudden change. I can still fight.”

            It wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t have a choice at this point: they were in, and it was do-or-die. Dean nodded, stepping back when he was positive that Cas wasn’t going to weaken again, and asked “Where’s Dick’s room, then? And are the facemunchers still far away?”

            “The head Leviathan is up the stairs, at the end of the hallway to the right. There is one Leviathan guarding his door, but the rest are no threat at the moment.”

            Sam winced as soon as Cas said the word ‘stairs’. The staircase, which was located at the opposite end of the foyer from the front door, was large, winding, and clearly wooden. Without Castiel’s powers to rely on, it would be difficult to get up without telltale creaking.

            Then, Sam recalled something he had read as a child. “Ok,” he said, “we’ll go up the stairs single-file, as close to the bannister as we can. That’s where the wood is strongest and least likely to creak.”

            Dean was used to Sam’s displays of completely random knowledge, but it was something that Castiel had apparently forgotten. He looked very surprised, in any case, when he said “Yes, that’s right.”

            Sam thought about being insulted, but they were on a heist, so he let it go.

            Their procession up the stairs would have looked absolutely ridiculous to anyone watching. None of the men were particularly small, (In fact, Sam and Dean could be called particularly _large_ ,) yet they tried to make themselves as tight to the bannister as possible without actually touching it, and picked their way up the stairs one at a time, looking for all the world like dancers concentrating on their steps.

            Sam, who brought up the rear of the group, was overcome with the ridiculous urge to laugh as he watched his brother and their stoic angel creep so carefully up the stairs. This was exacerbated by a troubling fact that he hadn’t told Dean and Castiel about yet: his hallucinations, which had been nearly dormant at the safe house, had picked the worst time _ever_ to return. Lucifer was there, stomping on the stairs with glee, making them creak louder than Sam thought humanly possible. He was also _shouting_ , calling for the Leviathans to come and stop the intruders. Behind Sam, the stairs were on fire, the flames crackling and licking at his heels.

            Had Sam still been sleep deprived, he would have been shouting, engaging with the hallucination of Lucifer. He thanked God for Cas at that moment, both for helping him sleep and providing something tangible that he could focus on.

            The angel’s back, though it was a line of tension, told the story of what was really happening at the moment. They were _fine_ , making little to no noise, and the Leviathans weren’t about to murder them at any second. So Sam concentrated on Castiel’s back, keeping his mouth tightly shut to avoid letting out whimpers at Lucifer’s loud voice, and put one foot in front of the other, slowly but surely.

            He was still relieved when they reached the top of the stairs.

            Dean looked down the hallway, able to make out the dim outline of the Leviathan guarding the door. Yet another thing they hadn’t planned for – who the hell did Dick think he was, royalty?

            Cas reached out and touched the Winchesters’ foreheads again. Instead of being whisked off to parts unknown, however, they heard Cas’s voice, as loud and clear in their heads as it would be if he was speaking aloud. ‘We will sneak down the hallway as far as we can. When the Leviathan sees us, we will run towards it. Dean will hold it off, while Sam and I enter the bedroom to make the switch’.

            Dean nodded at that, but Sam looked confused. Cas’s voice in his head, combined with all the other shit that was going on in there, was messing with his perception of reality. Had Cas really said that, or was it another aspect of the hallucinations?

            They didn’t have time for Sam to ponder this question, though, so he decided to go with his gut and listen to Cas.

            The trio began to creep down the hallway, still sticking as close to the walls as possible to prevent the hardwood floor from creaking. They were about halfway down it when the guard Leviathan spotted them.

            Instead of raising an alarm, like it should have, the Leviathan rushed to meet them. Dean raised his Borax gun and gave the thing a faceful, causing it to fall to its knees, clutching the ruined remains of its face.

            Sam and Castiel darted around the writhing Leviathan, bursting into the room that contained Dick Roman.

            The head Leviathan sat in a large, ornate desk chair, smiling his stupid little smile. Though distracted by the visions, which were building to a crescendo in his mind, Sam managed to unload his own Borax gun in Dick’s general direction. Unfortunately, Sam’s usually precise aim was off, and he only managed to get a few drops on Dick’s arm, the rest landing on the chair and the floor surrounding it. Like before, Dick barely reacted to the Borax, though the holes it burned in his skin were instantly visible. He gave a light chuckle. “This was your big plan?” he enquired, smarmy voice full of derision. “Send the powerless fallen angel and the crazy human after me?” his face turned ugly, then, and he got up from the chair faster than Sam had thought possible. “I’m going to enjoy eating you both.”

            Dick threw his head back, changing seamlessly to that monstrous set of teeth that only came out when the Leviathans were about to eat someone. He turned to Castiel, first, and Sam shot the rest of the Borax in his gun onto Dick’s back, at the same time Castiel struck with his angel blade.

            Neither of these things managed to stop Dick, as Castiel had only been able to open a long cut on his face, but that, combined with the Borax, made him falter. Seeing an opportunity, perhaps the only one they would get, Castiel yelled “Now, Sam!”

            He grabbed onto Dick’s outstretched arm, ducking the fangs which were still trying to go after him. Sam stumbled over to them and took the angel’s other hand, completing the circuit.

            The transfer only took a few seconds, but, to Sam, it seemed as though it took _hours_. He hadn’t expected it to hurt this much. It was as though something, a part of him, was being ripped out from deep within. From behind his closed eyelids, Sam could see a bright red light, although he couldn’t be sure if that was something that was actually happening, or if it was a manifestation of his pain.

            Sam’s only comfort was that, given the screaming, it hurt Dick just as much as it hurt him.

            The transfer ended, and Castiel dropped the hands of both men, who slumped to the ground. As Sam looked up through slitted eyes, he saw that Castiel didn’t look much better than he himself felt; it was obvious that the transfer had taken a lot out of him, especially with his weakened powers.

            Dick rolled away from where Cas had dropped him and got to his feet, eyes wide. He was staring somewhere over Sam’s left shoulder, and Sam’s first wild thought was that he must be seeing Lucifer.

            That wasn’t the case, Sam learned when his brother, bleeding profusely from a wound to his leg and covered with black goo, strode into the room and struck Dick’s head off in one smooth motion.

            ( _On that day the Lord with his cruel and great and strong sword will punish Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the twisting serpent, and he will kill the dragon that is in the sea_ Castiel thought, wildly.)

            There was no time for relief, though – it was likely that the other Leviathans on the property had been alerted to their presence by now, and none of the three were in any state to fight.

            They needed to get out of this house, and fast. Speaking through a flow of blood in his mouth (he had apparently bitten his tongue,) Sam asked Castiel, “Your powers are only dampened inside the house, right?”

            Castiel nodded and levered himself off of the wall he was using as support. “Hopefully we’ll be able to make it out the front door before we meet the others.”

            “There’s no time,” Sam panted, crawling over to Dick’s severed head and picking it up off the floor. He glanced at Dean. “You got the other one?”

            Dean held the still-dripping head in the air in front of him.

            Sam shut his eyes, gathering the strength he needed to get to his feet, clutching Dick’s head like a lifeline. “We’ll go out the window.”

            “Are you _crazy_?” Dean hissed.

            “Not anymore.” Sam could hear yelling, and the sound of the mansion’s front door banging open was impossible to mistake. Edgar and the others were coming. “As soon as we’re outside the walls, Cas’s power should return, and he can poof us back to the safe house before we hit the ground.”

            Dean cast a worried look at the angel. “Are you even gonna have the mojo left to do that?” he asked, but edged towards the window anyways. He, as well as his brother, recognized that they were running out of options. Seeing Cas’s nod, he used the severed head still in his hand to break the glass in the window, ignoring the new cuts this opened up in the still face. He pulled Sam roughly to his side, and gestured for Cas to grab his other arm.

            They jumped out the window just as they heard the Leviathans burst into the room, vanishing, as Sam had said, before they hit the ground.

***

            Apparently, the transfer had affected Cas’s teleporting skills. They landed in a heap in the kitchen of the small cottage, utterly destroying the table. They were bruised, bleeding, covered in black goo, and clutching severed heads, but they were all alive. More than that, through the dull pain that radiated throughout his entire body, Sam recognized that the shift had worked – he could feel no trace of Hellfire in his brain.

            The men, shocked from their less-than-ideal landing, didn’t move for a moment, until Daphne burst into the room, letting out a loud shriek at the state they were in. “Oh my God, are you all ok?” she asked frantically. “Is anyone seriously hurt? Oh my God, those are _heads_.”

            Dean, who was in the best shape of the three after the fight, was amused by that last statement. “We told you we were gonna bring back their heads,” he reminded her.

            “Yeah, but _seeing_ them is different. They’re disgusting. And did you have to land in the kitchen?”

            “I apologize,” Cas gritted out from where he was half on top of Sam, face still contorted with pain.

            Daphne looked chagrined, and immediately went over to help him up, leaving Dean to take care of himself. He examined the wound on his leg and determined that it would need stitches ( _shit_ ,) but concluded that he was otherwise fine. Now that Cas was standing, Daphne was fussing over him, so Dean turned to his brother – and promptly swore out loud. “Fuck! Sammy!”

            Sam opened one bleary eye at Dean’s shouting, and gave a little grunt. This prompted Dean to kneel next to him, checking him over in a brisk, clinical way that somehow still managed to convey his worry.

            “G’off,” Sam slurred as Dean felt around his head for lumps. He raised an arm to try to bat Dean’s hand away, but found that his strength was entirely sapped.

            Before Dean could have a full-on mother hen meltdown over Sam’s state, Castiel interrupted. “Because of the length of time Sam’s soul spent in Hell, the memories that caused his hallucinations were a large part of his psyche.” He was slipping into Angel Lecture mode, which was amusing considering that he kept swaying where he stood, as though a slight breeze could knock him over. “It is only natural that tearing them out of his brain would leave him…uncomfortable.”

            Sam summoned enough energy to give a disbelieving snort.

            “Also,” Castiel continued, completely ignoring the interruption. “Due to my weakened state, I was forced to use Sam as a conduit for rather a lot of pure energy. He should recover within a few days.”

            Comforted by Castiel’s words, if not his tone of voice, Dean allowed himself to turn away from his brother and ask, “And what about you?”

            Castiel’s small smile was self-depreciating. “I will be fine as well, though I fear it will take a while before I am back to full power.” He gave an alarming wobble, looking worse than he had inside Dick’s house, before his legs gave out completely.

            Dean’s Hunter reflexes served him well, for he caught Castiel before he hit the ground. Although, he mused as he dragged the embarrassed angel in the direction of his bedroom, growling that he ‘needed to get some rest, dammit, before he killed himself’, maybe it would have been better if he _hadn’t_. All the blood, goo, and Borax residue that coated Dean was now covering the angel as well, and really, Cas had proven more than once that it didn’t affect him very much when he was thrown into things like walls and floors.

            As the door to Dean’s bedroom closed behind Dean and Cas, Sam, from his position on the floor, caught Daphne’s eye. They looked at each other for a moment, their stares conveying frustration and disbelief at the scene they had just witnessed, before they both burst into laughter.

            Of course, Sam stopped laughing after a few seconds, due to the pain, but it was a nice bonding moment nonetheless. “They. Are. Hopeless,” he said.

            Daphne, still giggling, answered, “They’re _married_ , is what they are.”

            “The sad part is, I don’t even think they realize they’re doing it.”

            “Castiel sure doesn’t realize _Dean’s_ doing it,” said Daphne. “When I talked to him about it, he was all ‘Dean prefers female lovers,’ ‘Dean sees me as a brother,’ ‘Dean is unlikely to have any feelings of that sort for me.’”

            Her Cas impression was pretty spot-on, actually, and Sam really wanted to laugh, but lying on the floor wasn’t helping his injuries. As gently as possible, he asked, “Daph? You think you could help me up?”

            “ _Shit_ , I’m so sorry!” Daphne’s eyes widened and she immediately rushed over to help Sam up. Unfortunately, Daphne was small, and Sam was decidedly _not_ small, so he really ended up doing most of the work anyway. When he was upright again, he threw an arm around Daphne’s shoulders, trying to figure out how much of his weight he could lean on her without hurting her. Together, they staggered to the room where Sam slept.

            Sam was sure that there was some kind of irony to be found here, in the fact that he had just been making fun of Dean for doing with Cas exactly what he was now doing with Daphne, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He _liked_ her, in a way that he hadn’t actually liked someone in God only knew how long. She helped him into his bed, and then hovered anxiously. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

            “Nah, I just need sleep. _Again,_ ” said Sam. He was _tired_ of sleeping, goddammit, but there was nothing to be done about it.

            Daphne nodded. “Alright. I’ll reassure Dean that you’re not dying, and I’ll wake you up when it’s time for dinner. I’m making tofu stir-fry.”

            “You’re the _best_.”

            “I try.” Daphne’s smirk turned into an anxious look. Gathering up her courage, she leaned over and pressed a light kiss to Sam’s lips. Caught off guard, he took a few seconds to reciprocate. When he did, though – when he slid one large hand up to cup her jaw and deepened the kiss – it was the best kiss he had gotten in years.

            Daphne pulled away after only a few seconds, light blush on her cheeks. She smiled at him. “Try to get some sleep, alright.”

            “Yeah,” Sam rasped back, falling down to lie fully on the bed. He turned to his side, burrowed his head into the pillow, and was asleep within seconds.

            For the first time in a long time, his dreams were sweet. 

***

            Meanwhile, in the other room, Dean had set Cas up on his bed. After being thoroughly reassured that Cas was not, in fact, in mortal danger, he had started to pay attention to his own wounds.

            Cas watched with wide eyes as Dean splashed a bit of rubbing alcohol onto the cut on his leg, hissing slightly at the burn, and then picked up a needle he had already threaded and sterilized. “I’m sorry that I can’t heal that for you, Dean,” he said softly.

            Dean glanced up from where he was about to pierce his own skin. “Don’t worry about it.” He took a fortifying swig out of the bottle of whiskey he kept for this purpose, and inserted the needle into his skin. “It’s not like I haven’t done this for myself a million times.” His experience with performing minor surgery on himself was proven by the fact that his voice didn’t quaver at all.

            “A million!?”

            Dean took another sip of the whiskey, grimacing. “Figure of speech, Cas. No more than a couple thousand, really.” He shot the angel a shit-eating grin.

            “You are utilizing hyperbole,” Cas said with an understanding nod.

            “Sure,” said Dean. He pulled the needle through his leg one last time and knotted off the thread, then snipped the excess off. “Here, why don’t we get you out of those clothes?” He grabbed his duffel and began to root through it, searching for something that wouldn’t look too ridiculous on Cas’s smaller frame.

            “Is that a euphemism?” Cas asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

            “You’re covered in blood and Leviathan guts.”

            Cas looked down at himself in surprise. “Oh.”

            “Yeah, _oh_.” Dean tossed a set of pajamas at Castiel’s head, which would have been more satisfying if Cas didn’t have cat-like reflexes and hadn’t snatched them out of the air. “Thank you, Dean,” he said gravely, and began to change right in the middle of the room.

            “Jesus, Cas!” Dean averted his eyes quickly, and thus missed the dark look Castiel shot him at his blasphemy. “Didn’t living with Daphne teach you a little _modesty_?”

            “Daphne didn’t particularly mind seeing me unclothed, especially considering our first meeting.” Cas didn’t stop undressing himself. “Besides, you are the last person to be chastising others for immodesty.”

            Cas’s voice was teasing, and Dean told himself that was the only reason that he turned his eyes back to the angel, who was standing only in his underwear (and apparently angels preferred boxers, who’da thunk?) as he pulled the shirt Dean had given him over his head. Taken aback by Dean’s sudden silence, Cas turned his head to frown at him. “Dean?”

            Dean jumped slightly, and tried to look like he hadn’t just been staring at Cas’s ass. “So Daphne saw you unclothed a lot, huh?” Dean had no idea where _that_ had come from, and he had even less of idea why his voice had suddenly gone all husky.

            Cas blushed, actually _blushed_ , at that question. “Occasionally.” He avoided Dean’s eyes, moving to put the pants on, and then sitting back on the bed.

            _Occasionally_? “Occasionally?” Dean blurted out.

            “We were never actually married, but Daphne and I occasionally…engaged in some of the activities that a married couple might partake in.”

            Sick of Cas’s riddles, Dean got straight to the point. “You had sex with her?” Dean tried to convince himself that he didn’t know why he didn’t like hearing that, but gave it up as a lost cause after a few seconds. Even _he_ couldn’t deny that he was jealous.

            Castiel frowned at the tone of Dean’s voice. “Yes. It was a much more successful endeavor than the den of iniquity,” he tried to joke.

            It fell flat, though, and Dean had to turn away to hide how much that revelation affected him. He hadn’t though Daphne and Cas were sleeping together – they acted more like close friends than like lovers, and he had thought that Daphne had something going on with Sam – but it made perfect sense, when he thought about it. He cleared his throat and began to change his own clothes. “Congratulations, Cas. It was about time you got rid of that pesky virginity, huh?”

            Cas, never one to be deflected, said “That bothers you.” Dean could practically hear the head-tilt in his voice. “Do you have romantic feelings for Daphne? Because I assure you that we are not in any sort of relationship.”

            Dean kind of wanted to punch himself in the face. It would be less painful than this conversation. “Nah, I don’t feel that way about Daphne.”

            “I suppose not. I had noticed that Daphne and Sam seem to have developed a mutual interest. But then why -” Cas trailed off. “ _Oh!_ ”

            That wasn’t the reaction Dean had been expecting. Maybe Cas had jumped to the wrong conclusion again? Dean turned back to look at him, and saw that Cas was looking back with pure shock in his eyes. “Do you have romantic feelings for…me?” he asked, sounding unsure.

            Dean gritted his teeth. “I may have _thought_ about it, ok? But can we please not talk about it?”

            “Why not?”

            Dean turned away from Cas again, intending to get the hell out of this room as soon as possible. “Because we’re not _chicks_ , ok?”

            “I do not understand your arbitrary notions of gender roles.” Dean nearly jumped out of his skin at that, because Cas’s voice was suddenly directly behind him. He whirled around and found Cas right up in his personal space, still wearing that look of shock, though it had morphed slightly, to include…happiness? For the first time, Dean thought that maybe this wasn’t so impossible. “Cas? What did I say about personal space?” he joked weakly.

            Cas actually _growled_ at that, and leaned forward to finally claim Dean’s lips with his own.

***

            It wasn’t until several hours later that they remembered that they had to do something about the Leviathan heads. No one was entirely sure what would happen if they weren’t disposed of in some way, but since Chet appeared to be good and dead, Dean figured that they couldn’t regenerate over a long distance.

            Whatever the case, they couldn’t leave the heads in the house – not only were they unsanitary, but they really freaked Daphne out.

            Sam, sentimental bitch that he was, had insisted that all four of them gather outside to burn the heads, in order to send them off for good, or whatever.

            Although it was nearly summer the night air was still chilly against their skin as they gathered around a hastily built fire pit. Daphne was tucked under Sam’s arm, ostensibly to support him, though she was also enjoying the body heat given off by his large frame.

            Cas, who had been shaken awake by Dean to come to this little get-together, was grumpy. He was still wrapped in the blanket from Dean’s bed, with only his face exposed to the air.

            Dean didn’t know quite how to deal with Cas after what had happened in his bedroom earlier – sure, he guessed they were now…y’know. Whatever. _Dating_ , but Dean didn’t _do_ shit like that. He didn’t _cuddle_ up to people. He wasn’t a girl, or Sam. Besides, Cas was a badass warrior angel. Dean had a feeling he would be less than impressed if Dean tried to treat him like a woman.

            It would take some getting used to. Not just his new thing with Cas, and Sam’s new thing with Daphne, but living without Bobby, cleaning up the rest of the mess the Leviathans had created – and then maybe getting back to just hunting, the way they hadn’t been able to for years.

            There were very few times in Dean’s life where he had felt like everything was going to change for him. Just two, if he thought about it – after Sam had left for Stanford, and after his father had died.

            But as Sam poured salt over the two severed heads on the ground before them (mostly out of habit, as they were pretty sure salt didn’t do shit to Leviathans), and Dean poured lighter fluid on top of it, he was pretty sure this was another one of those moments.

            From beside Dean, Cas intoned

            “ _Yet God my King is from of old,_

_working salvation in the earth._

_You divided the sea by your might;_

_you broke the heads of the dragons in the waters._

_You crushed the heads of Leviathan;_

_you gave him as food for the creatures of the wilderness._

_You cut openings for springs and torrents;_

_you dried up ever-flowing streams._

_Yours is the day, yours is also the night;._

_you established the luminaries and the sun._

_You have fixed all the bonds of the earth;_

_you made summer and winter._ ”

            There was a moment of solemn silence, wherein nothing stirred. Then Dean snorted, muttered “Damn straight,” and dropped a lit match on the heads.

**Author's Note:**

> The quotations used in this fic are all from the King James Bible. They are as follows:  
> 1\. (Title) Psalm 104:26, full quote starting at 104:25 is  
> "Yonder is the sea, great and wide,  
> creeping things innumerable are there,  
> living things both small and great.  
> There go the ships,  
> and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it."  
> 2\. Job 41:9-11  
> 3\. Matthew 1:23  
> 4\. Revelation 9:11  
> 5\. Isaiah 17:1  
> 6\. Psalm 74:12-17


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